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Iwatched a towering elderly man with his flannel shirt on inside out fold his piece of paper in half and sit down, his chair scraping across the church basement’s faded floorboards. Holy shit, it was my turn. I didn’t want to follow Old Joe, but it looked like I had no choice.
I stood reluctantly and steadied my shaky legs.“Names matter. Names tell a person where they belong and who they belong to. Names tell someone how lucky they are or not. Names have power.”
I took a deep breath, resisting the urge to look up for a reaction.“How many names does a person get in their life? That depends on how many lives they live. Some lucky people wear the same name every day and never feel the need to change it. To others, names are like skins that can be shed and left behind. I’m a name snake, born and bred.”
I was about to continue when a soft chime jarred me. I looked around at the volunteer tutor, Jason, who smiled warmly.
“Well done, Lori! Thanks for sharing today,” he said, giving off that youth pastor vibe that made me want to scratch my eyeballs out.
I shuffled back to my seat as he passed out prompts for next week. A creative writing class in a church basement with the remnants of the previous AA meeting and whoever else felt like wandering in off the street was a far cry from the Columbia program I was desperate to get into. But it was a start.
“That was good, Lori. I enjoyed it. I’m a name snake. It’s catchy!” Pastor Jason said, joining me at the tiny refreshments stall before I could grab a donut—my dinner—and bounce.
I nodded, my mouth full of pink sprinkles and vanilla frosting.
“Was it true?” Jason continued, proving himself completely resistant to taking a hint when I continued to edge toward the door, pointing at my full mouth.
I stopped and forced the dry cake down my throat. Ouch.“Was what true?”
He blinked at me. “That you’ve had many names,” He wiggled his eyebrows. “It sounds mysterious.”
I forced a smile. “It’s just a creative prompt, right? I mean, I don’t think Old Joe has a superhero alias either, but you should go and ask him.”
Jason’s laugh boomed, making me cringe. Christ, the man was extra. From his prominent chin, blinding toothy grin, and the gelled quiff erupting from his forehead, Pastor Jason wasn’t my type. He reached out and brushed something off my lip. I stiffened. I hated being touched by strangers. I hated to be touched in general, but geez, invasion much?
“You had a sprinkle there,” he said, his hand lowering a little too slowly.
“Damn, I was keeping that for supper,” I said, fighting the urge to tell him to fuck off.
I liked coming here. In my relentlessly crap existence, this was the one thing I did to remember the girl I used to be. I didn’t want to stop because I’d kneed Pastor Jason in his tiny, blue balls.
My cell ringing saved me from having to deal with the pushy pastor. I held it up, using it as an excuse to run out of the church basement like my ass was on fire.
The shit days in my life started with staggering predictability, and today was following a familiar pattern. Dodging the landlord this morning because the rent was behind again. Eating cheap cereal straight out of the box because fresh milk was a luxury for those with diamond tiaras and working refrigerators. Probably.
Today was going for the record as I made the mistake of answering my phone before checking the caller I.D.
“Miss Wilson?” A stern voice asked.
It took me a long moment to respond. Despite four years of practice, I still failed to react naturally to my fake identity. I’d make an appalling spy.
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling from Grateful Dawn nursing home about your mother, Mara Wilson. You do know the rates went up last month? We haven’t had your check for the difference.”
I recognized the tone. It was one I heard often. The impersonal and uncaring tone of someone demanding a payment they know can’t be met. I didn’t blame the faceless finance office stranger. It was my fault. No, that wasn’t entirely true. It was also Henry’s fault. There were few things in my miserable life I couldn’t attribute to my fuck-up of a father. Grateful Dawn nursing home tipping my frail mother out on the street would be the icing on the cake.
“I know. I’m on it. I’ll bring it by soon,” I said, hurrying along the crowded midtown street. I needed to get to The Blue Rabbit or risk Rafe docking my wages again.
“Soon, as in today?” the voice pressed.
I stopped in the street suddenly, and a Japanese tourist recording a live video walked right into me. I apologized. She apologized. And then we went again before backing away from each other.
“Today or tomorrow,” I offered and waited to see if the fragile reprieve would be granted.
“At the very latest. Today would be better, Miss Wilson,” the voice in my ear said before promptly hanging up.
Well, winning the lottery would be better too, but that didn’t mean it was going to happen,I grumbled internally, heading down the subway stairs. I had fearless comebacks in my head, but they rarely made it out.
